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Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Domestic enemies of the MoM

People who failed health class: I gave birth to a boy and a girl. They happen to be twins, whose DNA traveled many moons and continents to find my very uterus, and produce two extremely different infants but I understand babies all kinda look alike And while they looked like the baby version of my 4 year old they are also, very obviously MALE and FEMALE. And always dressed one with a bow & one with out and even after being told they are a boy & a girl we hear the same question over and over. And over. And OVER.

“Are they identical?”

The only appropriate response is an impromptu lesson on the differences between a PENIS and a VAGINA. With drawings. Seriously, people NEED to know this stuff and I am on a mission from God to teach it.

Stuff: Stuff is a problem for any family with kids, but households with twins must have two of EVERYTHING. All the mur.thur.furking. time or someone (me) will explode, I think. Cribs and bouncy seats and high chairs and swings and those damn exer-saucers that require entirely new storage *wings* be added to the house. It’s okay, though. The babies don’t need a college education so much as they require those horrific, matching shoes with an obnoxious cartoon character on them. In a shocking twist of fate, I am ABSOLUTELY positive that I am going to die in an avalanche of the very Princess themed items that have ruined my house and my sanity. All that’s left to take is my actual living, breathing soul.

Grocery Stores: So. Grocery stores kind of suck in general for anyone with kids, but they present a *slightly* larger dilemma for those of us raising twins. I have YET to find a way to put two babies in a shopping cart that does not rely upon toilet paper as a padded wedge upon which your infant’s safety depends. And I ABSOLUTELY REFUSED to wait until my husband was home to make my way to the grocery store, because if I was given that kind of freedom, it was going to involve a t-box, an episode of The Real World and a tub of ice cream.

Instead, I opted to: stack twin #1 in the grocery cart, with twin #2 strapped on in the Baby Bjorn…all while verbally screaming my 4 year-old through the aisles of the store where Dora-the-marketing-slut peddles everything from fruit snacks to shampoo. All done with my head down to avoid eye contact with anyone who wanted to know if my babies were twins, identical (enter soft porn drawings) or wanting to touch their hands/cheeks/tongues with every germ in the known universe.